


A Mighty Ocean or a Gentle Kiss

by oneforyourfire



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 19:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19068931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/oneforyourfire
Summary: And fuck, it’s so fuckeduphow small he is, how slight, how soft, how handsome, how irresistible.





	A Mighty Ocean or a Gentle Kiss

Theirs is a sleepy, soft, lazy kind of Saturday morning. 

The lazy, soft, sleepy dreaminess of rumpled, mismatched clothing. Of sleepy side-by-side toothbrushings. Of instant mixed coffee and slightly burnt, slightly over-buttered toast. Of the morning news as pretext for more touch, more skin, the both of them tangling together on their couch. Of Junmyeon dropping lazy, soft, sleepy, close-mouthed kisses along Chanyeol's skin as the handsome news anchor with the strong jawline and whimsical ties talks about trade agreements and company-wide strikes.

And it's a sleepy, soft, absent kind of caress, a sleepy, soft absent kind of exploration. Blunt fingernails tracing over goose-bumped skin. 

Hazy and warm and lazy and soft and sleepy, Chanyeol sighs at the slow, slow crawl of Junmyeon's fingers along his hip, over his belly. He flattens his palm, laughs into his shoulder when Chanyeol squirms, squeaks, but he knows better than to stop, dancing, teasing, touching, touching, touching. 

He grazes his arm higher, cradling, humming about how warm he is as he skims over his nipples, traces along the contours of his sternum, curls lazy and loose around Chanyeol's throat. 

Junmyeon kisses, too. Drags along his temple. His cheekbone. His throat. Paints over the nape of his neck. His shoulder. The tips of his fingers when Chanyeol curls an arm back in a languid swat. Then his wrist. His forearm. 

On screen, the pretty weather forecaster with bangs warns about the air quality and yellow dust levels, cautions people to limit their time outside and wear their masks.

Junmyeon murmuring in agreement, reminding Chanyeol to buy more filters as he scrapes slow and lazy and sleep over Chanyeol's stubbled jaw. Laughing again, but slightly deeper when Chanyeol squeaks. 

Usually, it's Chanyeol doing the touching. Usually, it's Chanyeol doing the exploring. Usally—always—unable to _help_ himself, usally—always—> _needing_ the warmth of Junmyeon closer and more. 

And really, Chanyeol can't bear the desire, the pretext any longer, turning in Junmyeon's arms, shifting, scrambling, squeezing, dragging, tugging, righting. 

Chanyeol loves how easy he follows, his tiny, pretty, soft, soft hyung, straddling his waist, bracing himself on the trembling column of Chanyeol's belly. Loves the softness of him in the golden morning light. The tousle of his dark hair, the curl of his blanket-creased cheeks, the heartaching tenderness in his liquid eyes. The weight and smell of him, too, clean and warm and solid and completely his. 

He's wearing Chanyeol's Venetian casino shirt. Old, worn, faded, it hangs loose around his shoulders, his waist, and the fabric gapes as he slides forward, presses down deliberate and slow. Chanyeol curls his fingers around the soft warmth of his waist, thumbs into the jut of his hip bone as he shifts to squeeze his ass. 

It spills around his fingers, trembles. Junmyeon's entire tiny, perfect body.

He stumbles forward, muscles rippling, mouth latching, teeth grazing, his body a beautiful, beautiful, breathtaking quiver of desire. 

And fuck, it’s so fucked _up_ how small he is, how slight, how soft, how handsome, how irresistible. The twist of his tiny fingers in Chanyeol’s hair, the curl of his tiny hips around Chanyeol's waist, the tiny, tiny shuddery burn of his moan on Chanyeol's skin. 

"Oh, Yeollie," he sighs, soft, sleepy, lazy, sweet. "My Yeollie."

And lazy, sleep, soft, bumbling, he stutter grinds against Chanyeol's cock, the heavy, hot, hot ridge of him catching, dragging. And Chanyeol, gasping, kneads harder, grinds back, too, watches Junmyeon's jaw slacken, his eyebrows pinch, his small, small shoulders shudder.Chanyeol's shirt falls off his shoulder. And he's shaking so hard and fuck, he's so _small_ and fuck, he's too striking to _bear_. 

And Chanyeol wants to fuck him wrecked, fuck him ruined, wants to tear at him with his fingers, his teeth until he's as helpless and breathless and mindless and broken and _gone_ as Chanyeol already feels. Wants him devastated. Wants him ravaged beyond repair. Wants him with a gnawing, possessive violence that terrifies him. 

But he tugs him forward to kiss him instead, hisses as Junmyeon keeps, keeps, keeps rolling his hips. Desire rages through him, demanding, desperate, devastated. Much, much too soon. 

Chanyeol wants to, needs to, _has_ to, hyung, please—

“Fuck me."

Junmyeon moans, rocks forward just one last time, forceful, heaving, hot, hard. Then cupping his face, bites into his bottom lip, hot and hard, too.

And Chanyeol moans, too. But helplessly louder. 

Junmyeon hitches Chanyeol's leg over his hip, teases his wrinkled pajama-covered cock against Chanyeol's ass now. And Chanyeol chokes, arches, scrambles, pleads. Flails. Falls. Fumbles. 

" _Fuck_ me." 

Junmyeon—thankfully—follows easy in this, too. 

And together they tumble, they tangle once more. 

Junmyeon stradles his waist, rears back once, twice, groaning in encouragement when Chanyeol grips his waist. 

His chin knocks against his shoulder, and his eyebrows pinch. And his knees dig into Chanyeol's trembling thighs 

And Chanyeol still, still, still—

Tearing at his shirt, his pajama pants, Chanyeol splays himself open, legs spread, head thrown back. He curls a hand around his cock, strokes himself once, twice, thrice. 

And Junmyeon, groaning, fumbles one armed with their coffee table, rumages through the drawer for the lube and condoms they keep tucked beneath old magazines, extra batteries, replacement incense sticks and tealights. 

Peeling his own clothes off as he slides down his body, he kisses a wandering path along all of Chanyeol's quivering skin. His throat. His chest. His belly. His hips. Traces languidly over all the fading marks he'd left just the night before. 

Draping Chanyeol's legs over his shoulders, he mouths over the base of his cock, too, nuzzles, licks, noses over his perineum, his rim, kisses there succulent, slow, indulgent, insistent. But brief, but teasing. It'd been succulent and slow, indulgent and insistent last night too, but thorough, but stretching Chanyeol to his very limits, Junmyeon prying his quaking legs open and tonguefucking him to a shattering, shuddering, sobbing climax. 

Junmyeon licks once more, broad, savoring, hot, and Chanyeol tugs at his hair to have him moaning low and wrecked. 

Junmyeon latches onto his thigh, nipping there as he eases into him with two fingers. Teases, teases, taunts. 

He twists, twists, pushes, prods, fucks deep and hard and slightly cruel and perfect, perfect, hyung.

Twisting up, twisting for more, Chanyeol knocks against a sofa leg, inhaling a lungful of upholstery, scraping his face against the floral embroidery, moaning for him to keep, keep, keep going, just like that, hyung.

And Junmyeon like this, he doesn't feel tiny, doesn't feel slight. No, he's strong and large and looming and handsome and devastating and perfect, perfect, hyung. 

"Yeollie," he says, strained, rasped, deep. And his cock pulses against his hip, hot and heavy.

Trembling, Chanyeol clambers out of his hand, squeezes. Whimpers. 

And fuck, Chanyeol loves the shuddery ripple of his muscles beneath Jummyeon’s skin, the flush of red on his throat, his sternum. Loves the blunt scrape of his teeth, the tickle of his hair, the ruin of his moans. And the filthy slickness of lube. And the scrape of carpet fibers against his trembling lips. And oh, oh, the drag of his fingers as he pushes in earnest, with purpose, dragging, twisting, prodding. 

And the stretch and the heat and the need. 

And hyung, hyung, _hyung_. 

Junmyeon wrenches his legs open when they threaten to close, hooks his fingers, keeps him pinned and twisted up like that, helpless and breathless and mindless with desire. 

"Fuck me," he pants, pleads. "Hyung, fuck me."

And their fingers thread—even tighter. 

And Junmyeon kisses over one kneecap then the other, soft, sweet. Shifts. Rights. He circles his hips, skims his cock over Chanyeol's rim, dragging, teasing, slow, slow, excruciating. 

Hyung, hyung, _please_.

Junmyeon squeezes his fingers, pushes into him all at once. 

Chanyeol's body arches, breathe heaves. His thighs knock against Junmyeon's waist, and he quakes, moans—long and loud. 

And pinned beneath him, legs folded to his chest, head thrown back, lips scraping against their shag carpet, Chanyeol feels a beautiful mess of husky moans and flushed skin and quaking limbs, feels so impossibly small and precious and pretty and all his, all for his hyung. Feels like everything that his hyung could ever want or need or love.

" _Hyung_."

Moaning too, quaking too, Junmyeon fucks him in increments, in tiny, tiny pushes of his hips, pauses when he's fully seated. And Chanyeol can barely _breathe_. 

Slight, tiny, tiny, large, large, looming, looming Junmyeon groans. And his face pinches, jaw slackens through it. His fingers tighten. His eyelashes flutter. His lips tremble, all bruised and beautiful and ruddy. 

"Oh, my big boy," he calls him. "So good," he tells him. "So— _fuck_." 

Scrambling for him through the heady, heavy, hot, hot stretch of him, Chanyeol curls around him, urges him impossibly closer, closer, closer, more, _more_ , fuck me, _fuck_ me, _hyung_

And it's at Chanyeol's urging, at his begging that he finally, finally, finally moves. Retreats, thrusts forward again. Then again. And again. And again. 

The pace is slow, slows, soft, dragging, _deep_.

Almost, almost, almost—enough. 

"Hyung, please, please." 

Oh, perfect, perfect Yeollie. So pretty, so good for hyung. 

And Junmyeon's next thrust is heaving. Staggering and just just just shy of painful. Fucking perfect. And yes, yes, hyung, please, _please_. 

Sharp, sure, steady, his hyung fucks him sobbing and wrecked and ruined and desperate and ravaged beyond repair.

And fuck, fuck, fuck, the perfect fucking drag of his cock, the perfect fucking skim of all his arousal-pink skin, the perfect fucking burn of his arousal-heavy breath. 

He's everywhere, looming, large, perfect, perfect, hyung, tearing him to pieces.

But Junmyeon is tearing to pieces, too, unraveling, too. 

And fuck, it's too fucking perfect. Too fucking much. 

Chanyeol tears at his hair, kisses him deep and dirty and devastated, needs him closer, closer, closer. 

Junmyeon follows easy in this too. Falls to his elbows, nuzzles into his jawline, his throat, panting, nipping mindlessly, fucking still, perfect still. He nips at his ear, licks, sucks, pants. 

It's sloppier, less direct, but the kiss of his racing heartbeat and the sear of his moans and the sharp scrape of his teeth and the insistent grind of his pubic bone on Chanyeol's ass. Closer, closer, closer, he tumbles periously closer, closer, closer. 

And the pleasure bursting bright and sharp through his overheated body, coils tighter, tighter, tighter as Chanyeol clutches at Junmyeon's tiny, tiny shoulders, takes everything he has and more and more and more. Give me more. Give me everything. 

Almost, almost, almost. 

One hand drops free, scrambles, clambers, curls, tugs, twisting, clumsy, brutal. 

And almost, almost, almost. 

Don't stop. Faster. Harder. Don't stop, hyung, hyung, just—

Junmyeon fucks him to a shattering, shuddering end, fucks him through it, past it, fucks until the edge of pain has Chanyeol whimpering, writhing, wanting, wanting, wanting, please, Junmyeonnie hyung, come on, come on. 

Weak, ruined, ruined, gone, Chanyeol lolls his head back, watches him through heavy eyelashes, the rippling taut, taut tension of him, the line of his mouth, the strain of his rippling shoulders, the tremor of his belly, wanting, wanting, wanting, too, his Junmyeonnie hyung. So close and so hot and so perfect. 

Almost, almost, almost. 

He bears down deliberately, whimpers, hyung, hyung, come on. the exquisite burn of him, pulsing, dragging, taking,taking, ruining

Junmyeon's lips tremble around a helpless keening little moan, thrusts faltering, faltering, failing. 

He collapses with it. Quakes. Moans. Melts. Fucks. Fucks. Fucks.

And Chanyeol cradles, steadies as he trembles, his small, slight, handsome, handsome hyung. He pets a lazy, soft, sleepy, trembling hand through Junmyeon's sweaty, tangled hair, lulls him into a sated stupor, Junmyeon melting in trembling increments, lazy, sleepy, soft, soft, soft.

**Author's Note:**

> this kjm fic is over 11 days overdue :/  
> but thanks for reading all the way to the end  
> i hope you liked it


End file.
